


Slowly, Then All At Once

by ashleyerwinner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cute, Depression, Fluff, M/M, Post S8, art therapy, let's pretend s9 never happened actually, pre s9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:24:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyerwinner/pseuds/ashleyerwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All of these feelings, they’re overwhelming," Cas says between bites. "I think it was too much. I felt like I wasn’t even real anymore. Nothing felt real. And after a while, I couldn’t feel anything.” He looks up and locks eyes with Dean. “Does that make sense?” His eyes are sad, and Dean feels himself nod.</p><p>"Yeah, I get that." He says softly. And he does, he understands how it feels to feel nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slowly, Then All At Once

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that Cas’ case is a very special case, and if you think you’re depressed, please go to a doctor, to a therapist, someone who can help, and get all of the support you need. If you see any inaccuracies, please let me know! Thank you! I love you!

It’s been weeks since Cas fell, and although he’s always been the quiet, staring type, Dean knows better than to just shrug off his newly humanized friend. Sam says he’s depressed, once he’s well enough to get out of bed to even observe Cas’ strange behavior. Cas just stares blankly at the television, shoulders slumped, a layer of stubble covering his face. He doesn’t sleep much, and when he eats, it’s a nibbling of toast, a sip of water, a bite of soup. Dean can’t force him to eat, (even though he’s contemplated it), and the two want to help him get better, stronger,  _happier_.

Dean isn’t the talking type, so he leaves Sam and Cas to that, and looks online to see how he could help Cas out. Sam suggested a therapist, but Cas is honest enough, he’d complain about losing his wings and be tossed into a psych ward. Dean won’t let that happen to him. 

On the website he finds a category of “special cases”, and clicks on the link. He goes down the list of symptoms for men and finds that Cas has nearly every symptom. He feels his fists clench up without his permission, tastes blood in his mouth from biting through his lip. He’s upset, angry, and if he had the power to take this all away from Cas, he’d bear it himself.

Sam knocks on the door before coming in, wiping his still-pale face and sighing. 

"Cas won’t open up," he says, and Dean nods sharply, clenching his jaw. "Have you found anything to help?" He comes around to sit next to Dean and looks at the page, his eyes skimming down the page before his ass reaches the bed.

"In all our years of hunting, making connections, have we ever met a therapist?" Dean asks, mostly to himself, but Sam is shaking his head beside him, muttering something about being better off if they’d have one down the hall from them at all times. Dean clicks links and skims, shaking his head as they all suggest therapy and anti-depressants. 

"Let me see," Sam says, and yanks the laptop off of Dean’s lap, and types furiously. "Ha," he says without any emotion, and tosses the laptop back onto Dean’s lap.  

"Art Therapy As A Treatment for Depression," he reads out loud.

* * *

 

Getting Cas off of the couch is near impossible, but Dean and Sam manage to talk Cas into walking down hallways with them, passing their rooms, the kitchen, the bathrooms, shower rooms, and down an empty hallway they haven’t touched yet. In one of the empty rooms sits buckets of paint, brushes, and four white, empty canvasses for Cas to paint on. 

For the first time in a long time, Cas’ eyes seem to brighten. He turns to the brothers wordlessly, his mouth open, tears glossing his eyes. 

"We figured, you know," Dean is rubbing the back of his neck, "maybe this could help with, whatever you’ve got goin’ on." Cas won’t take his eyes off Dean now, and that’s the most normal thing he’s done since he lost his mojo. He turns to Sam as well, and nods.

"Thank you, Dean. Sam." He adds. It’s the longest forming of a sentence he’s said in weeks, and Dean feels his heart swell. The brothers turn, and leave Cas to it.

"Have fun!" Sam calls over his shoulder, and they don’t hear a peep from Cas for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

 

When Dean goes to bring him his dinner later on, he doesn’t expect to see much of Cas’ work done. He hopes that he’s done something, even if it’s at least another layer of white paint over top what was there already. 

So, when he walks into the room and not only is Cas covered with specks of paint, the walls are  _covered_  with it. His eyes scope the room, and his mouth drops open in amazement. It’s nothing Dean has ever seen before, and it’s beautiful. Blacks and reds and grays with whites swirl on one wall, the red splattered like blood, streaking down what looks like a mouth open in anguish. Yellows and oranges surround that, what looks like fire, but looking closer, it has to be something else. Dean is knocked out of his thoughts when Cas coughs behind him, watching him nervously.

"Is it… bad?" He asks, and Dean can only guffaw in response.

“ _Bad_? Cas, this is — it’s — wow, when did you learn how to do stuff like this?” Cas’ eyes brighten, and the most amazing thing happens, he smiles. It’s small, but it’s a start.

"Thank you, Dean." His eyes glance down at the sandwich Dean’s holding in his hands. "Is it dinner already?" He asks, and takes a step forward. Dean nods, and it to him. 

"So, this, this was a good idea? The painting?" He asks, and Cas nods before taking a bite out of the sandwich.

"All of these feelings, they’re overwhelming," Cas says between bites. "I think it was too much. I felt like I wasn’t even  _real_  anymore. Nothing felt real. And after a while, I couldn’t feel anything.” He looks up and locks eyes with Dean. “Does that make sense?” His eyes are sad, and Dean feels himself nod.

"Yeah, I get that." He says softly. And he does, he understands how it feels to feel nothing. He gives Cas a small smile, and Cas stares at his feet.

"Dean, could I… ask you a favor?" He says. "It’s very quiet, here by myself, could… and you don’t have to, but —" Dean interrupts.

"You want me to keep you company?" He asks, and Cas’ head shoots up to see Dean’s reaction. Dean is nodding and smiling, and yeah, if this helps Cas, then he’ll do anything. "I’ll even bring some tunes. Get you all familiar with Zeppelin." He winks, and takes Cas’ empty plate from him. (Empty, he notes, because Cas actually ate something in its entirety.)

"Thank you, again, Dean." Cas says, and Dean nods. 

"Anytime, buddy. You wanna watch some television? I think they’re showing Die Hard tonight." He says, and Cas nods.

"Perhaps I should take a shower first," he says, looking at his paint-speckled clothes. Dean looks at him, flecks of dried paint on his nose, across his cheeks, through his hair, and something swells in his chest. 

"Nah, it looks dry," he manages to say with a calm voice, and Cas’ eyes shine a bit brighter. "Plus, you look pretty awesome like that." He adds, and Cas bites back a real smile.

They end up falling asleep halfway through Die Hard, and Dean wakes up with  a painted ex-angel in his lap, and a smirking younger brother with a knowing look on his face.

"Shut up before you even talk, Sam," he says.

* * *

 

The weeks go by and Cas’ paintings fill the room, all more and more pleasant as time goes on. Dean spends his time watching Cas paint, or in actuality, watching Cas. The way his back arches when his brush strokes are long, the way his face is focused and unblinking when he is doing the small details, the way he stands with his head tilted when he is contemplating what to do next.

They don’t talk much, he realizes after a while, but Cas seems happy enough that Dean is in the room with him. And when Cas finishes, he turns to Dean with a nervous smile, and says, “how d’you like it?”

"Even better than yesterday’s, Cas," he replies, and Cas turns away, a small smile dancing on his face.

"Dean, would you…" Cas starts to say, looking at the wall, back facing Dean. Dean waits patiently for Cas to finish. "Would you mind if I painted you?" Dean sits still a moment, not quite sure if he’s hearing correctly. Cas turns around to face Dean and seeing his confused face, continues. "Not naked, or paint on you, but, maybe, I was just thinking, it’d be nice to try to draw people instead of —" his arms swirl around, motioning to the artwork on the walls. "You don’t have to, obviously, but I just thought, maybe —"

"Sure, Cas,." he says, before he realizes he is saying it. Cas’ face brightens, and he smiles an actual toothy smile, the first Dean has seen in a long, long time.

"Thank you, Dean," he says, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes, but his smile is infectious, and Dean finds himself smiling along anyway.

* * *

 

"My nose isn’t shaped like that, Cas." Dean says, feeling defensive about his appearance, but Cas isn’t having any of his criticism.

"Shush," he says, and stares at Dean a long time before turning and making corrections on his nose. Dean smiles, and he sits a while longer before Cas turns and says, "Maybe this should be it for today." He looks frustrated, and Dean nods, hoping not to upset him farther. He looks at the pencil sketch on the wall and smiles.

"Looks just like me," he says softly, and elbows Cas as he walks forward. 

"I don’t know, yet," Cas replies, and leaves the room without further explanation. Dean follows him out, and they spend most of the night in silence, watching television, the blank look in Cas’ eyes returning.

Dean is worried, naturally, and he finds himself staring at Cas instead of the television. 

"Is Cas alright?" Sam says later, and Dean shrugs. 

"Maybe he’s just got artist’s block or something," Dean mumbles, but he’s not done being worried just yet.

* * *

 

In the morning, Dean rolls over and sees two squinting blue eyes focused on him. He jumps up, and sighs, rubbing his eyes, after realizing that Cas is not going to murder him.

"I’m sorry," Cas says, not sounding very sorry at all, and Dean looks up at him.

"What are you doing?" 

"I can’t draw you," Cas says.

"You can, there’s proof of it on a wall."

"No, you don’t understand," Cas says, voice agitated. "I can’t draw you, because —" he stops, pursing his lips. Dean waits.

"Because why?"

"Because if I get even one thing wrong it’ll all be wrong. If your nose is the wrong shape, I’m not drawing you, I’m drawing someone with a different shaped nose. If I can’t get the right color of your eyes, it’s someone with duller, less interesting eyes. If I can’t get your lips right —" Cas stops, and takes a deep breath.

"Cas, you know I think you’re an awesome painter, right?" Dean’s voice sounds more sincere saying this than anything he’s ever said before.

"Dean, I just want everything to be perfect," Cas looks away. "Because you’re perfect." He adds, nearly too soft to hear, and Dean’s eyebrows shoot up on his face.

"Cas, I’m not —"

"Yes, Dean, you are," he says, and looks up at him with such ferocity and affection in his eyes that it scares Dean.

"You are too," he says back, after a minute. "God, Cas, watching you draw, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s the most graceful and interesting —" he stops, and bites his lip. "Fuck, Cas, I think I love you."

"What?" Cas’ voice is breathless.

"C’mon, man, don’t make me say it again, just —" he’s cut off by two soft, warm lips on his own. Their kiss is chaste, but it leaves Dean’s head spinning, swirling, and he's gaping dumbly as Cas pulls away.

"I think I love you, too, Dean," he says, and he’s shining again, his Cas, bright blue eyes and toothy smile and Dean feels the warmth of Cas envelop him entirely. He pulls Cas by his paint-speckled shirt and kisses him hard.

"I can’t even say get a room because you’re  _in_ your room, but damn, close the door!” Sam says as he walks by, slamming the door once he’s done, but Cas and Dean are too preoccupied to shoot back any lame response.


End file.
